Temple Priestess

Living Journal 6.5

You are finally 42.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. (1) size 13 tennis shoe (1) oversized bumble bee [stuffed/scary depending on the light], (2) half dirty tank tops —> wedged inside an armpit. (6) Homeless plastic pastel heart beads. (1) iPhone shoved into the back of your 7yo Lulus coming apart at an unfortunate gluteal seam.

You stop. You face yourself. You smile.

The reverberations of the gesture compel you onward. Your faffing about the house, bolstered by an upswell of enchantment. You are Snow White in dwarfdom. A divine dervish, delighting in the regal placement of lost items.

You hum. Nothing in particular, but a chirpy bubble requires release. You humor it.

You imagine your girls rolling their eyes. A carbonated giggle escapes without warning.

You wonder why it took you so long. To look upon yourself with love. With sad eyes. With knowing eyes. With eyes padded in crowsfeet.

You consider yourself at 12.

—> 3 years into a tumultuous relationship with Bullymia. Pinching stomach fat. Crying for no reason. Swallowing secrets for breakfast.

You consider yourself at 22.

—> The breast-crushing shame of daily hangovers - gummy red eyes. Rodent breath. 3am panic at the disco. Speed fiend. Tomorrow’s problem. Today we ride. Today we forget to remember.

You consider yourself at 32.

—> Melasma blooms post-pregnancy. Mirror induces jump scare. You hardly recognize yourself anymore. Wine at 4 to tolerate the iron lung of new motherhood. You wonder how much longer you can carry on.

3 more years, Life said.

3 more years.

Till then.

Hold on. Lose your fingernails to the side of the well.

Just don’t let go.

Just don’t let go.

Just don’t

Let

Go

---

You consider yourself at 42.

—> Having not let go.

Having held on with no hope.

On your way to transport (2) suede platform boots size 1 with zipper tassels(3) Library books on the Titanic with illustrations, you pause.

This time.

On Purpose.

In front of the mirror. Inside the bathroom. Carved into the walls of the temple you built. With those same hands. The ones that didn’t let go.

You bore back into glossy soil orbs until you reach the ones who came before you. The ones that have been waiting for you. The ones with wings and crystal whispers. The ones that cradled your hands in the ink black. Pressed fingernails back to bed with tales of temple priestess and divine lover.

You close your eyes. And weep for it all.

You could have missed all this.